


For As Long As It Stands

by LadyBrooke



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Feanturi Week 2019, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 07:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBrooke/pseuds/LadyBrooke
Summary: Finarfin does not accept impossibilities, at least in this.Námo is tired of games and riddles, and perhaps this is finally the right Noldo to figure his out.





	For As Long As It Stands

“Prince Arafinwë,” Namo’s voice echoed throughout his halls.

Finarfin pushed the door closed behind him. “My lord.”

“You are here, I suppose, to inquire on the same matter that the rest of your family has come to ask me about - how do you reclaim your half-brother and nephews from my halls.” The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

“Yes, my lord,” Finarfin said. “It cannot be impossible, for even Morgoth was given a second chance.”

“And Lord Manwë thinks he has learnt from what happened then,” Námo said, voice sounding closer in the hall as the tapestries nearest to Finarfin showed the resulting battles.

Finarfin looked around, for the voice seemed to be concentrating near him. “Do you agree with him?”

“What would it matter if I did not? I have given him my promise that your brother will be kept here until the conditions we agreed upon were met.” Námo stepped into being, coming to walk beside Finarfin.

Finarfin looked at him, as defiant as either of his brothers before Morgoth. “My family says such conditions are impossible to meet, but I would hear them from you directly.” 

“Very well.” Námo smiled. “I have promised the other Valar that Fëanáro and his sons that dwell in my halls will not leave until Míriel leaves my wife’s home to rejoin your father and mother.”

“And Míriel was confined to that home to keep her from doing so.” 

Námo nodded. “They intended it to be permanent. Even when they agreed Finwë should be let out of these halls to rule again, because they wished for the three elven kings who journeyed here originally to be reunited, most did not wish for such a reunion in your family.”

“Is it permanent?” Finarfin asked.

“Míriel is confined to my wife’s home for as long as it stands, though Vairë wishes more than anything that she was free to leave. Míriel has long since become one of her few friends in these lands, the only one as skilled in weaving as my wife,” Námo said.

Finarfin looked over sharply. “So she would-” 

“It is best to not speak of such things, Prince Arafinwë,” Námo said. “Things often become impossible when spoken of, for their weaknesses become evident, as I told your brother.” 

“Nolo has always had a habit of seeing such weaknesses before they even appear,” Finarfin agreed, as a tapestry showed his brother’s death. 

“And you do not?” Námo asked. 

“I was the dreamer prince that ran away to Alqualondë, my lord. It was not required of me to learn such.” Finarfin glanced at the tapestries hanging on the wall. “The city was different in those days.”

“It was. Sailors often ventured forth to where only Ulmo could see them, unless there were birds to follow. And in those days, there was less focus on what was happened at the shores, for better and for worse. Manwë loved all elves, but the Noldor and Vanyar took most of his time.” Námo shrugged. “Ulmo was the one always fond of his sailors, no matter which side of the sea they dwelt on.”

“And you, my lord?” 

“I care for the dead, and therefore I care for the living. It is little matter which side of the sea they dwell on, for most who die come here in the end, and they leave their loved ones behind,” Námo said.

“It must be difficult to see those with little hope of being reunited,” Finarfin replied.

“And yet, no matter what the others say, I do see a chance in even the most doomed cases.” Námo moved forward, lingering in front of a tapestry of a feast Finarfin recognized too well. “It is why Vairë and I attend some feasts, even if it means our attentions are not as firmly on our responsibilities as they could be otherwise.”

“Do you intend to visit the feast this fall?”

“I do. Vaire and I intend to be in Tirion early this year, in fact, in order that I may hear the pleas of those still separated from their loved ones.” He reached a hand out to the tapestry, which shimmered and moved through long ago memories until Fëanor fell to the ground and wept. “Perhaps it will be better than the one we attended so many ages ago. It would be nice to see reunification instead of division, for once.” 

“Perhaps you shall see such this fall, my lord.” Finarfin continued to watch the scene, as his nephews crowded around their father. Even in that grief, Finwë’s children had not been the first to reach each other.

“Perhaps,” Námo said. “But we have wandered from our original topic. Do you understand what I have told you today of the impossibility of your brother’s return?”

Finarfin looked back at the tapestries, dooms unnumbered shown on them. He looked forward into the depths of the halls and imagined he could see a fire there.

He took a breath before speaking. “I believe so, my lord.” 

Námo looked into the depths as well. “I believe you do.”

_

“And where is Prince Arafinwë?” Vairë took a drink from her cup as she spoke, her husband sitting beside her with his hands clasped in his lap. 

Fingolfin forced a smile onto his face. “Arafinwë said he would be late to the feast. He took off some days ago on an errand that he did not disclose to me, simply stating that he hoped to bring back gifts that would bring happiness beyond measure.”

“Your brother always did wish for everyone to be happy,” Vairë said. “An admirable trait.”

“Perhaps, though I fear it will bring him grief in the end.”

“How so?” She asked. 

Fingolfin looked out at the crowds. “There cannot be happiness for everyone, my lady. At least not until the world is unmade.”

“Perhaps you are right, Prince Nolofinwë. There are those who have been torn asunder from their loved ones until that time. Elu Thingol has lost his daughter. Nimloth, her husband. One of your own great-grandsons has chosen that path as well. But perhaps not all are as lost as you think,” Námo said. “But enough of that. Your brother has returned, and seems to want to bring your parents their gift first.”

Vairë had tensed as her husband spoke, clutching her cloak closer. Námo no longer looked at Fingolfin, but at the table where the other Valar sat. 

Finarfin strode through the crowd, hand clasped with a cloaked figure. Whispers arose through the crowd as they took in the figure. Perhaps it was the Princess Galadriel’s husband, finally entering these shores. Perhaps it was one of Elrond’s sons, the other having chosen the Gift of Men. The whispers quieted when he reached the dais, guiding the figure to sit down at Finwë’s feet, Indis taking a deep breath as she looked closer.

Finarfin turned and stood in front of them. 

There was silence.

Finally Finarfin looked at Vairë and spoke. “I apologize for the destruction of your house, my lady, but it was necessary.”

“Nothing could make me more glad than to see it fall,” she replied, a smile overtaking her face as she took in the scene on the dais.

Námo nodded. “Indeed, Prince Arafinwë, there is nothing that could make her happier. But I suppose there is something you would like to ask of me now.” 

Aulë laughed in the background, next to where Varda had suddenly reached and grabbed her husband’s hand. Manwë’s face carefully blank as he watched the scene. 

None of the elves watching knew quite what was going on, though Fingon could be frantifically heard whispering to his sister about the house, the house, Serindë, you don’t think. Fingolfin dared not move from his place.

“I do. The last time I visited your halls, you told me that Feanaro and his sons could not leave until Míriel was free to rejoin my mother and father,” at this he paused. A hand rose from the cloak to push back the hood, and for the first time in ages, Míriel Serindë sat with Finwë and Indis. Indis reached a shaking hand out to grasp Míriel’s shoulder as they both cried. Finwë sat perfectly still, unbelieving hope in his eyes as they looked towards his wives and youngest son.

“Here she is, my lord. Will you grant my family my brother and nephews?” Finarfin lifted his chin as he spoke.

Námo laughed. “I will, Prince Arafinwë, with my thanks for granting me a more pleasant feast to attend.”

And then Fëanor and his sons were there, as though Námo had simply hidden them from view, and their family all rushed towards each other.

Námo stood and walked until he stood next to Manwë.

“You always did like wordplay,” Manwë finally said. “Did you tell them it was you who offered the phrasing for those conditions?” 

“Would you have listened any other way?” Námo replied.

Manwë was silent. 

“Fëanáro is not your brother,” Námo said. “It was unfair to give them no hope, when you still have some for him, and yet more unfair to punish them for his betrayals.”

Manwë nodded, as they watched Finwë finally reach up to grab all three of his sons. 

**Author's Note:**

> Námo had no idea it would take this long for a Noldo to show up ready to accept property destruction as the answer.


End file.
